


newton's apple

by flailingthroughsanity



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 19:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17587064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingthroughsanity/pseuds/flailingthroughsanity
Summary: Shiro walks through gravity-stilled time, searching for purpose, follows a faint image in his head – a soft smile brimming with hope, eyes reassuring — promising him that everything will be alright.





	newton's apple

**Author's Note:**

> Something really short I wrote today on the way to work. Hope you enjoy it!

> **NEWTON’S APPLE**

Shiro walks through gravity-stilled time, searching for purpose, follows a faint image in his head – a soft smile brimming with hope, eyes reassuring — promising him that everything will be alright.

* * *

 

There’s a snap – a crackle of the egg on the frying pan – and Shiro blinks, faintly noticing the growing sting on his wrist. With a deft hand, he turns the spatula in his hand and slides it under the egg, flipping it over. The motion causes the oil on the pan to splash a little, and he turns the heat down a bit.

The underside of the egg – now on top – is a faint yellow, marred in milky white and his stomach growls at the sight.

It goes on for a moment – waiting for the egg until it was properly cooked. The kitchen is quiet – silent – save for the crackling of the egg. Sunlight gleamed from the window above the stove, seeping through the curtains. Outside, the still leaves glimmer under the light, refracting on the window’s reflection – little circles of green blurring through the glass as he scoops the now-cooked egg on to a plate.

Shiro kills the flame and walks to the little island in the middle of the kitchen, bare feet padding against the warm wooden panes of the floor.

It was April, the cycle of seasons coming full circle as summer heat starts to seep into the atmosphere. A few months ago, it had been nearly freezing as December had brought with it a frigid draft. Luckily, he had managed to stock up on jackets and warm cider to help him deal with the influx of frost.

April, though, started to warm her way now. He appreciates it, as he can finally leave the apartment without fear of freezing to death and in maybe just one set of clothes and shoes, no longer needing to wrap a scarf around his neck.

As he sits at the counter, fork neatly dividing the egg into equal portions, the faint scent of coffee wafting from the mug beside it, Shiro runs through the chores in his head.

Since it was beginning to run down on the warmer side of the year, he guesses that it was probably time to open the shop up and let some actual light and heat in. Mr. Lee would want that, he thinks.

There was also the matter of old Mrs. Nam. She’d been cooped up in her apartment all winter and he remembers her fussing over how she hated staying indoors when she could be out and about (even at the age of sixty-eight) and Shiro chuckles to himself, remembering to visit his upstairs neighbor after he’s done clearing the extra blankets and draperies he had brought up from last winter.

He chews on his food, taking a moment to sip the coffee by the side and glances around the empty kitchen and down to the living room across the hall. The clock near the door – set beside it, above a frame of photos and a pile of books – tells him it’s running almost nine in the morning.

Maybe, he thinks as he glances at the still minute and hour hands of the wall clock.

Regardless of the hour, he has a lot to do for the next few days. He’s grateful for it – for the coming of April. The last few months had been one of the most difficult months he’s had, defying cold in the isolation of his apartment. It would do him some good, to get out.

Taking his eyes away from the clock, Shiro stands and picks the now empty mug and plate up, walking back to the sink. He’s not in any hurry, though.

He has time.

Far too much time.

* * *

 

Shiro walks through stilled time. He can’t pinpoint when it started, what caused it – or a better question – why it had to be him of all people. The thing was, Shiro was just your regular, everyday guy. He went to school, had a job and went out with friends – the kind of guy that wasn’t any different from the one next to him. He’s had girlfriends, and maybe some boyfriends – paid taxes, complained about it to his friends – just any normal guy you’d meet on the street.

It stands to his surprise, then, when he wakes up – one day – and goes about his usual routine, preparing for work. The television wasn’t working that day, the screen buzzing out into static, and when he checked his phone, finds that there was no service line available.

He had shrugged to himself, thinking that there may have been some network issue (he did the math in his head and knew that he just paid his phone bill a week ago, so it wasn’t definitely a disconnection on his end). He walks out of his apartment, eyes glancing at the clock and finding the hands still.

He had taken it down, checked its battery – and deciding to replace it later – continued on his day.

He lived in a small apartment complex, with a neighbor across his, and old Mrs. Nam occupying the one above him. It wasn’t anything lavish, but he did manage to get by – which was surprising considering its location.

Smacked in the middle of Apgujeong, with a rent price that he can actually afford – it was one of the smarter expenses he’s ever had to make, considering that he works as a barista in a small coffee shop with a meager pay that allows him to get by.

He remembered stepping out – then – and finding old Mrs. Nam standing by the complex’s main door. She looked ready to go, wrapped in a coat, her bag in her hand. Shiro had bowed his head, calling out a greeting as he passed the old woman.

Her lack of response made him turn to her, only to find his neighbor frozen on the spot.

She had one hand raised, as if about to grab for the door, blank eyes looking out the window, silver hair in a neat bun.

“Mrs. Nam?” He asked, concerned. She was getting on close to sixty-five then, and she often had these weird quirks that Shiro thinks are usually connected to old people – like how Mrs. Nam would stand outside the complex and feed the stray cats or how she would be knocking on his door at six in the morning, handing him a huge batch of cookies she had baked (only to remember she was diabetic and wasn’t allowed sweets). 

He wouldn’t put it past her, to be ready to go out and only to remember she had nowhere to be. She was sweet, and incredibly kind but she sometimes went on flights on fancy that left Shiro shaking his head in fondness.

“You alright?” He asked, starting to frown as his neighbor continued to remain, as still as stone, on the doorstep. He places a hand on her arm, feels the warmth of her skin – she wasn’t burning up, just felt relatively normal – and finds that she wasn’t responding to his touch.

Fully concerned now, he shakes her arm a bit – just enough to move her – only to find her remaining just as immobile, her hand now slightly askew from the way he had pulled it. He lets go, and expects her arm to fall to the side but it remains raised, elevated.

He remembered knocking on his neighbor’s door that day – the one across his – asking for help and receiving no response. He tried calling for help, tried reaching the emergency line but there was no network, and his phone responded to his call with silence.

He remembered picking the landline up – the one in the main hallway, set out for the tenants’ use and feels relief spread through his frame as the dial tone beeps in his ears, but no matter how many times he presses the operator button (or any button for that matter), he received no response, save for a recorded message, a female voice telling him that whoever he was trying to contact cannot be reached.

He remembered bursting out of the door that day – intent on walking to the nearest clinic or hospital – only to find Seoul as different as ever, and he wondered if he was locked in a dream.

(A part of him tells him he wasn’t dreaming, even when he dearly wanted to believe he still was.)

* * *

 

Shiro walks out of the complex doors and feels the heat of the April sun on his skin, missing its warmth as he steps out in nothing but shirt and jeans, his favorite pair of sneakers on. He closes the door after him, and lets his eyes rove about the street.

The paths were devoid of people and finds that nothing much had changed – surveying the cars frozen on the road, locked in motion. A windshield wiper was locked in mid-swipe, and he could spy the look of concentration on the driver’s face through the tint. He shrugs to himself and walks down the steps, intent on heading to the antique shop by the corner first.

As he walks on, he notes the fallen leaves on the ground – reminded that he had yet to do some of the cleaning for last fall and tells himself to do it sometime soon – and brushes the leaves in the air away with a flick of his hand, faintly noting how they continued to float in place in their new position.

The streets were silent, as their usual, not even the chirping of the birds overhead. Shiro looks up, and sees some in mid-flight, paused and unmoving, and wonders how they were holding up in the last few dreadful months. He can remember snow piling on their little bodies through the blizzard.

He sighs to himself, knowing he couldn’t do anything about it, and continues on his way.

The street he lives on is filled with little boutiques – a clothing line on one part, followed by a little pottery and then a small shop selling gardening equipment. The doors are closed as he walks by, the curtains drawn on the windows and he takes a look at his reflection as he walks by. His hair was growing out a bit, and he may need to cut them in a week or so.

Shiro reaches the antique shop and breathes in relief to find it still intact. He feels for the keys in his pockets and unlocks the front door, opening it wide as the cold draft inside the shop leaves in seconds, chased out by the summer wind.

The inside of the shop is dim, but Shiro doesn’t feel bothered in the slightest – knowing the layout intimately – and he starts pulling the curtains up, letting more light in through the windows.

The room gets noticeably brighter, light glinting off the items on display. He bends over a tall vase, probably from the Joseon dynasty or other – Shiro’s not that much of a history buff; anyhow, knowing what the items were was Mr. Lee’s job. He pulls the curtains up on the last window.

He stands back up, wipes his hands on his pants, and turns back to the rest of the room, smiling.

Shiro finds Mr. Lee sitting on the armchair in the corner, set in between two glass cabinets where some old figurines were put on display.

The old man was sitting comfortably in his chair, hands on the rests, unseeing eyes gazing at the floor through his heavy spectacles. His thinning, grey hair was combed back neatly – courtesy of Shiro – and his clothes remained as neat-looking as they usually were, the gold of his wristwatch letting out a soft glow.

“Look at you, all spruced up.” Shiro says, walking to him and crossing his arms, grinning. He turns to the windows, and looks out to the empty streets – the green of the trees, the colors of the panels of the store across the shop, at the SUV parked at the side. “So, ready for another day of business?”

The man doesn’t respond, continues to stare at the ground – unmoving, and paused.

The corner of Shiro’s lips rise up. “That’s the spirit.”

He spends the next few minutes carefully moving Mr. Lee to his place behind the counter. It took some work, making the man stand and moving his legs – they moved slowly but it was nothing tiring for Shiro, he’s used to doing it already – and when he positions Mr. Lee’s arms on the glass counter, he places his hands on the man’s cheeks and smiles as he angles it up, old eyes locked with his own.

The first time Shiro had come across the antique shop was when he was looking for some second-hand furniture to supplement his living room, entering it (thinking it was a thrift store of some sorts).

Mr. Lee had been standing in the exact same place, arms on the counter, eyes looking up as Shiro stood at the entrance, roving his eyes and realizing he wasn’t in a thrift store – or any store that a fresh-off-college kid with a three-digit salary could bear to be in.

“Not where you want to be?” The man had asked, chuckling. Shiro had raised a hand to the back of his head, embarrassed.

“Not really. Thought it was a store I could buy some cheap furniture.” He said, taking in the expensive looking paintings on the walls.

Mr. Lee had smiled. “This isn’t the place, son, but I know where you can get some.”

Shiro smiles at the man now, still feeling that same thread of gratitude the same as he had then – years ago – and pulls his hands back as Mr. Lee continues to stare at him, unseeing and frozen.

“I’ll be back for lunch, alright?”

No response. Shiro’s smile grows small, turning away as he moves on, heading for work.

* * *

 

There’s this image in his head. He sometimes sees it in his dreams or even when he’s awake, in the little moments where he pauses and zones out. The funny thing is, he’s sure it’s not a memory – even though he finds it impossible to remember everything, he’s quite sure that the image in his head isn’t something he’s seen, or something that has happened to him.

Not when the image in his head is a person – and it’s someone he’s quite adamant he’s never met.

The image in his mind – appearing sometimes in that space between slumber and consciousness, or in the seconds he’s not completely aware of even when he’s awake – is that of a boy, a man.

This image, this man, he looks about the same age as Shiro. He once thought it must have been a classmate of his, or maybe someone he met at work – perhaps even a customer – but no matter how hard he racks through his memories, no name comes up, no amount or inkling of recognition ignites and he’s left with nothing but blankness.

Yet, the image – for some reason – feels comforting.

There are times, when he has this image in his head – the image of this man’s face, pale and fair, the shape of his eyes sharp yet softly glimmering under his lashes, curved lips up in a crooked smile, dark, almost raven hair tracing his brows in delicate strands – that feeling of comfort, of hope, bubbles up in him.

Sometimes, the image speaks and Shiro would respond to it. A part of him once wondered if he had gone insane, maybe he just woke up and  _ cracked, _ stranded in a world frozen in time, seeing a stranger’s face in his head, hearing a voice talking to him, comforting him in the midst of his loneliness.

There had been days where he wondered if this was what insanity felt like, and he knows that he should feel more than the slight undercurrent of worry he usually has but when the days had gone to weeks and weeks started turning into months and Shiro’s began to trace the years on the frost of the windows, he’s found it harder and harder to care.

The routine, the one that he usually does back when everything was normal, keeps him alive and stable but he would be lying if the idea of closing his eyes and never waking up didn’t once appeal to him – perhaps in an instance or other – and times where’s actually considered the notion should have scared him, but after he’s stopped counting seconds and began counting breaths, he’s lost the drive to care.

Except, this image in his head reminds him – for an odd reason or other – to keep on going.

He doesn’t know why – as he stands behind the counter of the coffee shop he works, staring at the frozen replicas of people sitting on the couch – but the image, the soft-smiling raven-haired man in his head, stirs the embers in his blood and tells him to keep breathing, keep hoping.

Shiro slowly runs down the aisles of the coffee shop, turning his heads, watching the paused expressions on the faces of the customer – the girl talking excitedly with her friend, mouth open in a smile, unseeing eyes bright or the man reading the newspaper, squinting eyes on the small letters, the untouched cup of coffee on his table – and tries to imagine that image in his head, here, smiling at him.

That would be nice, he thinks with a faint smile.

Shiro reaches over and angles the phone in one customer’s hand properly, as she prepares to take a photo of herself and her friend together.

“Smile wide!” He eggs on, grinning as he presses the camera button. Of course, nothing happens – the interface still and unmoving – but he imagines the girls turning to look at the image after, excited chatter peppering the air. Shiro throws a grin their way and pats the phone owner’s shoulder as he walks off.

The image in his head – the one he’s named Keith, because it felt right somehow, after running through a million names – he tries to imagine it here and maybe it’s that – the imagining – that keeps him sane.

Keith would be someone tall, strolling into the coffee shop. He’d be wearing a soft, navy blue sweater and Shiro would stare at the light glinting off the color as the other stands at the counter, looking up at the menu.

“What can I get you?” He’d say, and he’d say it with a smile – maybe even with a bit of a smirk – because Keith was attractive, with his open gaze and that crooked smile, looking like marsala in a tinge of smoke in the dim amber light of the café.

Maybe Keith would blush – realizing the intent in Shiro’s words – and he’d look away, and Shiro would take a moment to stare at the touch of red on the pale cheeks.

Maybe he wouldn’t even blush – perhaps smile bigger and Shiro would realize that the other was just as interested, perhaps throw back a barb or too.

“What would you recommend?” The other would say, leaning close and there would be a drift of pine, perhaps citrus or maybe cedar – the scent of earth and stone, wood and grass – and his eyes would look bigger up-close, under his dark fringe. The words would sound innocent – but they would be tinged with a slight whisper of interest.

Shiro would smile, and would realize that he would very much like to get to know him better.

* * *

 

The rooftop of a nearby building offered a nice view of the sunset. Shiro would sometimes come up, hands in his pockets as he stood near the railings, watches the sky flood in swaths of yellow and gold, the sun glimmering at the edge of the horizon – the Han river’s blue-green waters turning a fiery rose – and sometimes Shiro would wish he was a photographer or a painter, maybe even just a writer, just so he could put into words, frame in time and replicate the exhilarating beauty of the sunset.

But, sometimes, words fall short. Sometimes, word don’t mean what you want them to mean – and the words that do manage to escape twist the intent into something far unrecognizable.

Sometimes, a name says everything and nothing and a smile is both a question and an answer.

“Is this your idea of a date?” Keith would ask, smiling at the image as he glows in the light. Shiro would turn to him, feel the caress of the wind coursing through his hair, and he’d be struck speechless – watching the light off the slope of the other’s nose, lashes dark as his eyes reflect the brightness of rose gold sunset, hair drifting back.

The sound of the cars below would trail up, faint and dulled, and Shiro wouldn’t pay it any notice as he’s taken aback by the other, bathed in sunlight.

“What?” Keith would ask, and Shiro would watch – to his delight – as red begins to pool on his cheeks, noticing the intense stare of the other.

In the movies he’s seen a long time ago, this would be the part where he can stand and stare, take in the beauty of the other – maybe even whisper quietly the words “you’re beautiful” - and Shiro would like that.

He really would.

He turns back to the setting sun, hears no honking of the cars below and knows that if he turns his head, Keith wouldn’t be there.

* * *

 

Seoul was bright, Seoul was a glimmering nest of lights, caged in steel-lined towers rising to the heavens. Seoul was a city that never sleeps.

That was the Seoul he knew then, closing his curtains to shut the lights of sleepless streets and silent giants from his bedroom window. When night falls, and he stares up at the sky, there would be no lights to contrast the stars that would forever map heavensward.

In the first few months, he would have felt a bit afraid, and understandably so as Shiro walks through the dark streets, the buildings empty and void of any light, but he doesn’t feel afraid anymore. The moon is bright, lucent, and floods the streets below in her faint glow. The stars continue to flicker and scintillate – running in the hundreds and to the thousands – and he’s lost count of the times he’s walked down Gangnam and Mapo, a crick in his neck as he stares above, at the multitudes of lights – bright and endless.

The stars – they oscillate – and Shiro is reminded of the times in his childhood, as his mother tucks him into bed and tells him stories about the sky and the stars and the planets. She’d tell him their names, tell them that stars have names and they can be your friends if you want them to – pointing up at Orion and Rigel, Arcturus and Ursa Minor and Polaris – and Shiro wondered then, that it would be amazing and nice to have so many friends, too many for him to count as he looks up and traces the stars with his hand.

_ Did you know that, though the skies seem different around the world, they’re all the same stars?  _ His mother once said, and Shiro – four and curious – blinked his eyes wide.  _ Really, mom? _

She nodded then, tucking her hair behind her ear, and the scent of lavender trailed as she leaned close to kiss his cheek.  _ Yes, darling. Isn’t that wonderful? That we live in so many different places, and come from different cities, but we all look up under the same stars? _

_ You see, we’re never alone. Not really. _

Ancient astronauts would course through space, bypassing planets and comets, blazing a trail of light in the wake of their journey.

The expanse of so much possibility, Shiro thinks, looking up at the sky from a city – a world – long stilled by time, and he wonders if it was like that in space, as well.

He would try imagining it – even if he sometimes felt a bit ridiculous doing so – flying to outer space, and find Venus and Mars, mid-orbit. Asteroids would float in place, a comet would have stopped, the tail blazing its colors and maybe then Shiro could reach out and touch it and he’d finally know if it was really as cold as ice, as its blazing blue lights remind him of Neptune’s glow, or of the oceans on her surface he has yet to see.

“Who knows? It might be possible.” Keith would say, looking up at the same sky – and Shiro would wonder, as they both look up, that in spite of the differences people have – the wars clashed, the opinions divided – they remained the same people, looking up the same skies, blessed by the same stars and he’d wonder what made them so different in the first place.

“It would be amazing, wouldn’t it?” He asks the other, and Keith nods, looking up.

“I want you to be there.” He says, both to himself and to the image in his head that’s been there the moment the world stopped for him, keeping him grounded, keeping him company. “I would really like for you to be there.”

“That would be nice.” Keith says, voice quiet and fond as he reaches a hand out.

And if Shiro would reach a hand back, imagines holding warm skin instead of empty air, there was no one to tell him otherwise.

* * *

 

“Don’t do it, don’t do it.” Keith would say, in warning, even when his face is wrought with a big smile as Shiro stands on the ledge, bare skin feeling the heat of the sun. The waters of the Han river looks up at him, their surface glistening in the afternoon light – blue-green tides frolicking, effervescent, against the shores.

Shiro would turn to the other, grinning, as adrenaline boils in his veins. “It’s gonna be fine, you know.”

Keith would glare at him, face in worry as he realizes that Shiro was serious. “Are you  _ insane? _ ”

Shiro shrugs, pouting a bit, standing back straight from his earlier crouch, bare feet ignoring the slightly uncomfortable warmth of the bridge’s concrete railings, soaked in sunlight for almost the entire day. “Maybe, but it’s going to be fun. Promise.”

The other would roll his eyes, crossing his arms, looking away and Shiro would smile to himself, taking in the slope of his nose, the flushed lips and the wind forcing his hair into his eyes and he’d extend an arm out, inviting him up the rail.

Keith would look at the hand, and back up to him – slightly suspicious of his intent – and Shiro would make a face, pretending to be hurt at the other’s distrust. It would be like that for a moment, Shiro standing and reaching a hand out – shirtless and barefoot, atop a bridge rail – and Keith down on the street, wary.

But – and Shiro smiles – the other would give up, arms falling to the side as he sighs and asks himself why he even bothers, climbing the rail up with Shiro’s help.

On top of the rail, the wind is stronger and Shiro closes his eyes, letting it course through his hair and against his skin. It’s a bit cold at their height, but he doesn’t mind. He imagines Keith doing the same, closing his own eyes as the wind drafts his hair up.

Shiro turns to the other, standing close, inhaling cedar and breathing out sandalwood, feeling the press of the other’s hand against the plane of his stomach. Keith would turn to him, fingers splaying out against his abdomen and Shiro would want to shiver at his touch, light and feathery on his skin.

Keith would open his eyes, large and searching, as they turn to him and Shiro would place his hands on both his cheeks, leaning in as he kisses the other.

He’d taste like coffee and chocolate, warm and comforting, as hands would hold his waist and kiss him back. Keith would close his eyes, let out a soft whimper – delight and passion, tinge of innocence – and Shiro would kiss him deeper, wanting to claim him, wanting him.

Just him.

Shiro pulls away slightly, his breath fanning out against the other’s flushed lips, and he’d take in the other’s wide-eyed gaze.

Then – a mischievous smile, as Shiro grasps Keith in both arms and jumps off the rail.

Keith’s scream of surprise echoes in the silence of Seoul, reverberating against the Han river’s surface, and he feels the grasp on his arms and waist as tight as a vice grip and Shiro would scream and laugh as well, closing his eyes as they hurtle close to the surface.

Freefall.

* * *

 

Amber paints the room in warmth, and Shiro presses kiss after kiss on the other’s pale skin. Light glimmers, casts its spell on the summer night’s air and Keith would sigh softly, eyes half-lidded, looking up at him as Shiro bends down, tasting the still river-soaked skin and inhaling cedar and pine and citrus.

Keith is beautiful like this – and he would be, bare and open, under his bedroom’s lamplight; face angry as Shiro helps him out of the river, cheeks flushed; a smile, innocent yet interested, standing on the other side of the counter of the café he works at – and Shiro sits back and takes a moment to just look at him, takes him in.

The other would look up at him, breathing slightly ragged, and Shiro would be overcome with a desire to sink his teeth into the pale skin, wrap his arms around the other and never let go.

“What?” The other would ask, a mirror of the day on the rooftop, facing the Seoul sunset.

Shiro would shake his head, leaning over the other and feeling Keith’s hands on his bare waist, fingers tracing shapes on his skin, exciting and igniting flares of desire in their wake and Shiro would press his lips against the other, breathing out, as he feels his hardness and want, feels Keith’s open-mouthed breath against the other.

“It’s just…” He would whisper, leaning back, feeling his hair stick to the skin on his forehead and he’d take in the desire in the other’s eyes. “It’s just you.”

Keith would look up, deciphering the words, sharp eyes gleaming in the near-darkness. Pale skin flushed, cheeks still, chest moving slightly as the other traces over Shiro’s face with his silent eyes. Fingers would trail up his back, feeling the sweat and the curve of his spine and Shiro shifts his legs, leaning down and pressing himself against the other’s girth.

The other would close his eyes, in pleasure, and opens his eyes again, asking, wanting, and Shiro feels his chest tighten with so much want and desire.

“Just me?” The other asks, quietly, breath fanning out and Shiro nods. The other’s voice is low, almost silent – sibilant – but there’s a sliver of confirmation, want, and affection and Shiro never realized he could feel so strongly for this – for this image of this man in his head – keeping him grounded, telling him to hold on.

Days run by his mind, the memories he has and the futures he’s created – written on air and stored in his head – dreaming of the day he can finally bring them to realization.

He doesn’t tell the other this, but if it were real, he wouldn’t have to because Keith would know, would know it intimately, and would know it just as brightly as he does. If Keith continues to ask him, in that same needing voice, with that open gaze – Shiro wouldn’t even think otherwise.

He’d follow the other anywhere.

“Just you.”

* * *

 

Shiro is running out the door of his apartment, ready for a new April day. Yesterday, he had gotten so busy cleaning up the café – even if nothing changed – that he had forgotten to have lunch with Mr. Lee.

He knows the other would be grumpy if everything was back to normal, and Shiro can already imagine the slight disgruntled expression on the old man’s face – who wouldn’t admit to liking Shiro’s company – and he laughs to himself, carrying the Tupperware boxes in his hand.

The cars remain in their frozen motion, and the same leaves he had forgotten to clean up remain in the air but Shiro doesn’t worry himself about it.

He has time, far too much of it – and even if there were days where his loneliness would reach up to great heights, promising to drown him – he finds the beauty, the brighter side of it, in the image of Keith in his head, in the little ways he tries to get by.

Maybe, some day, everything will be better. He doesn’t know when it will be, but he’s hopeful.

Shiro pauses in his steps, realizing he’s walked past the shop and rolls his eyes at his own wandering thoughts, and turns back.

He hits something solid, and the Tupperware falls from his hands as he stills, head raised at watching what he bumped into.

A boy – no, a man – stands before him. He’s tall, just a few inches off Shiro’s own height. Pale skin glows in the morning light, curved lips up in an apologetic, crooked smile – eyes bright and shining – raven hair gleaming.

Shiro remains, frozen to the spot, as the other bends down to pick up the fallen Tupperware.

“I’m sorry,” The other says, voice low but warm, extending the Tupperware to him. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Shiro doesn’t answer, eyes still wide as coherence and rationality runs off, leaving disbelief and blinding,  _ staggering  _ hope in their place.

“I’m Keith,” says the other – smiling, eyes tinged with innocence yet glimmering with interest as he looks up at Shiro beneath the onyx-lined fringe.

Shiro raises a hand – slightly shaking – as he grasps the other’s extended one, feeling warmth instead of empty air, feeling life instead of imagination, and the brightness in the other’s eyes isn’t manufactured by his own ideas and thoughts.

Real.

And Shiro can’t help it – the smile bursting at the seams of his lips, and he feels the ache of it but he doesn’t care, he couldn’t care at  _ all  _ – and answers back. “I’m Shiro.”

The smile on the other’s face is genuine. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

_ “Just me?” The other asks, quietly, breath fanning out and Shiro nods. The other’s voice is low, almost silent – sibilant – but there’s a sliver of confirmation, want, and affection and Shiro never realized he could feel so strongly for this – for this image of this man in his head – keeping him grounded, telling him to hold on. _

_ “Just you.” _

A car honks, speeding past them; light glimmers and scatters on their entwined hands, the chirping of the flying birds above brush through; leaves fall, and Shiro feels the sharpness of their edges against his cheek as they continue to rain on the two of them; a knock on the glass, and Shiro turns to find Mr. Lee smiling at him from the shop, waving his hand—

And time—

Time finally,  _ finally  _ continues.


End file.
